by Beth Ciotta
Assorted grunts and titters caused her to falter. Maybe she should have glossed over the vulgarities. Then again, Wilde had used those specific words to emphasize Rome’s anger. Anyone who knew Rome knew his predilection for swearing. In the upcoming showdown with Four-fingered Angus, Wilde had peppered dialogue with son of a bitch and bastard. Truth told she’d overheard Paris’s brothers say worse. Perspiration beaded on her upper lip. She resisted the urge to sleeve it away. Purposely refrained from making eye contact with anyone in the audience, especially Mr. Pinkerton. A professional scribe. A gentle man.
“Go on, Emily,” Cole urged. “I, for one, am eager to hear the outcome.”
Was this part of his plan to win her favor? A public display of approval and support? She couldn’t get a bead on him either. Clearly, she was inept where men were concerned. Her stomach contracted and her voice warbled as she picked up where she’d left off. “Swearing Four-fingered Angus to the devil, Rome brushed tendrils of fine coal-black hair from the woman’s slack features. Dead to the world she was, so the Wells Fargo detective bestowed upon her the kiss of life. He pressed his mouth to hers and . . . and . . .”
She swallowed, tugged at the collar of her shirt. Gracious, the room was warm.
Mary Lee sniggered.
“Grow up, Mary Lee,” Miss Frisbie whispered. “Keep going, Emily. You’re doing fine.”
She told herself to rally. She so desperately wanted to be the new Emily. Outspoken and fearless. Mary Lee deserved a pop on her powdered nose or, at the very least, a lecture on compassion. The woman was a bitter menace. Emily knew she could shut her up, by telling everyone she’d seen the woman kissing a ranch-hand down by the stream last week. But Emily didn’t have it in her to humiliate another human being. Mary Lee’s husband and father would suffer as well. She just couldn’t do it.
Squashing down her discomfort, she plowed on. She choked out one more line before reverting to the old Emily. She stared down at the print, at the romantic scene, hopelessly tongue-tied. How could she not say the words? She knew them by heart.
Mary Lee sniggered. “Prude.”
“Hussy,” Miss Frisbie rallied in Emily’s defense.
Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. “Ladies, please.”
Someone coughed into their hand. Wooden chairs creaked with fidgeting bodies.
Then silence prevailed as the audience waited for her to continue with the story. Mr. Biggins, the stuffy cobbler. Sheriff McDonald’s pious wife. Mary Lee, the uncharitable hussy. She imagined them, along with a scattered intolerant few, scooting to the edges of their seats, making mental wagers as to whether she could get through Showdown at Sintown without succumbing to the vapors or a babbling episode.
Gaze riveted on the dime novel, Emily’s skin burned. The wings of a thousand butterflies ravaged her stomach. It’s not that she was embarrassed by the scene. She believed in the passion behind the words. Trouble was folks expected her to behave in a certain manner. Like a preacher’s daughter. A puritan. A prude. If they only knew. Well, actually someone did know. Her Savior.
Now why did she have to go and think of that wretched soul? Everything inside of her seized. Her vision blurred and her hearing buzzed. She heard voices but couldn’t distinguish words. She stared at page three, paralyzed.
“Pardon me.”
The roaring in her ears grew louder.
“Excuse the interruption, but . . .”
Mr. Pinkerton’s accented voice rose above the din, breaking Emily’s trance. She glanced up just as he started toward her and went down hard, face first, with an undignified yelp.
Though the membership turned, not a soul offered assistance. They probably figured the stranger would get up and dust himself off, only he didn’t. Concerned, Emily passed the dime novel to Miss Frisbie and rushed forward. She dropped to her knees and touched his shoulder. “Mr. Pinkerton. Are you all right?” When he didn’t answer, she nabbed his arm and tried to flip him over. Mercy. For a soft-spoken, sweet-smelling man, he certainly was solid. She could feel sculptured muscles beneath his jacket sleeve, and couldn’t help but wonder how he’d come to be so fit. One didn’t develop rock-hard biceps from pushing a pen or pencil across paper or solving crimes from an armchair.
“Out cold,” Mr. Biggins declared as he stooped and helped to turn Mr. Pinkerton onto his back.
“Must’ve hit his noggin hard.” Miss Frisbie leaned over Emily’s shoulder. “Maybe I should fetch Doc Kellogg.”
By now the whole membership had huddled.
“Give him a sec,” Mr. Thompson said, shooing everyone back. “Give him some air.”
“Sure does smell pretty,” the senior librarian noted as Emily readjusted the man’s specs. Knocked askew in the fall, it was a wonder the lenses hadn’t cracked.
“Looks pretty, too,” Mr. Biggins said, hands on hips. He looked over at Cole. “Don’t know what you got so riled for. This Nancy boy doesn’t look like much of a threat.”
“His name is Phineas Pinkerton,” Emily grit out. “He’s a poet in search of inspiration.” A half-truth, but better than the whole truth. She couldn’t reveal why he’d really come to Heaven.
Several people repeated the word poet and chuckled.
Their intolerance for anyone who marched to a different beat struck her anew and with a vengeance that had her grinding her teeth. She tapped the scribe’s clean shaven cheeks in hopes of reviving him. The longer he was out, the more she worried he’d suffered serious harm.
Bones popped and creaked when Mr. Thompson hunkered down for a closer look. “A poet. Guess that would explain his prissy clothes and delicate constitution.”
Blood burning, she locked gazes with the proprietor of the general store. An essentially good man, or at least she’d thought until this moment. “Mr. Pinkerton doesn’t seem to be coming around, Mr. Thompson. Miss Frisbie’s right. We should fetch Doc.”
Duly contrite, he nodded and rose with another series of snaps and creaks. “Cole, would you mind? You move a mite quicker than me.”
Cole spared Emily a look that caused her stomach to flutter . . . and not in a good way. “I’ll be right back.”
Emily would’ve told him to take his time, except she wanted him to hurry along Doc.
Mary Lee, who’d probably never regretted a word or action in her life, kneeled across from Emily. “Mr. Pinkerton looks right peaked.” Her lip twitched. “Maybe his heart gave out. Maybe you should give him the kiss of life.”
Miss Frisbie waggled an arthritic finger at the shrew. “Maybe you should--”
Emily touched her champion’s arm to cut off whatever verbal bullet she was about to shoot. A shouting match in the library wouldn’t do. Besides, this was her fight. Mary Lee had been egging her on all afternoon. If she leaned forward she could sock that smirk off of the woman’s puss. But that wouldn’t be nice, and if Emily had had anything drilled into her spirit, it was to be good. Besides, if she took a poke, Mary Lee might collapse on top of Mr. Pinkerton, making it even harder for him to breathe.
Kiss of life.
She’d never pressed her mouth to a man’s. Didn’t it figure her first kiss would be of a practical nature and not with the love of her life? She placed her hands on either side of the poet’s face, conscious of his sharply-cut features, of the warmth of his skin. Or maybe it was she who was overheated. Lord knew she was burning up with awkwardness as she dropped her face close to his. How many times had she dreamt of touching Rome like this?
“Mr. Pinkerton,” she whispered. “Phineas. Come back to us. Come back or I’ll have to . . .” She cleared her throat. “Please don’t make me do this.”
No response.
Drat.
She leaned closer, lips hovering inches from his mouth. A nice mouth, she mused. Not that it mattered. This wasn’t about pleasure, but life and death.
She heard a collective intake of breath, could feel the membership hovering over her and the unconscious man, could sense Mary Lee’s amusement.
/> Just then Mr. Pinkerton’s tawny lashes fluttered. He opened his eyes and, startled by her proximity, jerked upward. Their foreheads knocked and they yelped in unison. “Good heavens, Miss McBride,” he rasped. “You scared the dickens out of me.”
She palmed her smarting brow, eased back. “Are you all right?”
He sat up, and casually adjusted her crooked spectacles. “Are you?”
Her heart galloped at the brush of his fingers. She nudged away his hand and flipped her braids over her shoulders. “I’m fine.” Knowing everyone was staring, she scrambled to her feet and offered Mr. Pinkerton a hand up.
He squinted at her as if he didn’t understand the gesture.
Miss Frisbie squeezed her elbow. “I’m thinking he’s still dazed, Emily. Probably shouldn’t get up until Doc examines him.”
“I’m quite well, madam,” Mr. Pinkerton said. “Merely chagrined. It’s not every day a man trips over his own feet.” With that, he rose and swooned.
Mr. Biggins caught him and eased him into a chair. “Whoa there, Percy.”
“It’s Phineas,” Miss Frisbie corrected, moving forward to fan the poet with a copy of Harper’s Bazaar.
Mr. Biggins studied the groaning man with a disgusted sniff. “Same difference.”
Mary Lee joined Miss Frisbie, and suddenly every woman in the room was fussing over Phineas Pinkerton. Emily stood in the background, amazed. First impressions could certainly be deceiving. Warrior of God, my foot. She’d never met a more fragile man in all her born days. Apparently, Frank and the other men agreed as they rolled their eyes and drifted back to the cookies and lemonade.
Cole and Doctor Kellogg burst into the library and Emily knew two things for certain.
One: She wouldn’t have to finish reading Showdown in Sintown.
Two: She’d have to look out for Paris’s friend until he left town. Once word got out that he was delicate, Phineas Pinkerton would become the subject of petty, hurtful gossip.
It occurred to her that they had a lot in common.
CHAPTER 5
Seth considered himself an expert on two things in life: wrangling criminals and seducing women. The trick was getting into their minds, learning what made them tick, and anticipating their actions and reactions.
Emily McBride was a brain buster. Hard to make sense out of a woman who made no sense at all.
Seated in the passenger seat of a ramshackle buggy, he glanced sideways at the young woman in possession of the reins. She didn’t dress, talk, or behave like a preacher’s daughter. Instead of wearing her pale blond hair in a conservative style, she’d woven the waist-length tresses into two sassy braids, tying off the ends with leather thongs. Her attire was equally unconventional. A buckskin skirt, flat-heeled boots, a man’s white ruffled shirt, and black suspenders. She looked more like a circus sharpshooter than a librarian. The only bookish thing about her was her spectacles. She wasn’t homely or beautiful. Quietly pretty, maybe. Tall for a woman, though not as tall as Seth, and thin as a desert grasshopper. She wasn’t overtly sensual and yet, since meeting her, he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off of her. He’d told her he was intrigued. That, for sure and certain, was the truth.
“A concussion. Of all the rotten luck,” she grumbled as she slapped the reins to the backside of the harnessed mare in a bid to hasten their trek out of town.
“Possible concussion,” Seth corrected, though he had no such thing. “If you’re uncomfortable about me staying with you--”
“I am, but there’s no help for it. Someone needs to watch over you for the next twenty-four hours and I can’t leave you at the mercy of the innkeeper at the Moonstruck. Boris tends to frown upon men with delicate constitutions, if you know what I mean and I think you do. Forgive my bluntness.”
The absurdity of the statement caused Seth to smile. Good thing he was confident in his manhood. “I appreciate your candor, Miss McBride.” Mighty worldly for a preacher’s daughter. Athens’s description of a shy, trusting soul had been a tad misleading. Although she avoided eye contact, Emily spoke her mind fairly well. On the other hand, she was painfully polite and overly concerned about what other people thought. To top things off, she was dead set against marriage, except maybe to Rome Garrett. Once again, the Wells Fargo agent was proving a pain in Seth’s ass and he wasn’t even present.
He’d met Rome, had instantly recognized a fellow skirt chaser. In addition, he’d heard about the man’s fickle ways from his sister and had read about them in those exaggerated dime novels. Emily wasn’t his type. She wasn’t Seth’s type either. Apparently Athens, Sawyer, and Bellamont had a weakness for outspoken, flat-chested virgins.
Paris had tipped him off regarding Bellamont’s interest. Cole Sawyer had been a surprise. After meeting the arrogant prick and sensing Emily’s distress, he’d jumped on her mistaken assumption he was one Phineas Pinkerton. It had been a split-second decision, one he aimed on using to his advantage. Obviously Paris, the interfering minx, hadn’t informed Emily of the change in plans as agreed. Josh was operating on the sly. Athens hadn’t forewarned her of Seth’s arrival, wanting to catch her off balance with the marriage proposal.
Turns out, Seth was the one caught off balance.
“You’re going to have to stay with me. Which is what Paris intended. I can’t believe this,” she lamented to the horse’s behind. “She’s not even here and she still got her way.”
He was thinking the same thing. “Just promise me you won’t interfere in my problems.”
“Can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
He’d already given his word to the contrary to three other people. “I’m not big on promises.”
“Well, I’m not big on saviors!”
Seth studied her with curiosity and concern. He heard more than anger in her tone. He heard fear. “No need to raise your voice, Miss McBride.” He winked in a conspiratorial manner, as if they shared a special secret. “Delicate does not equal deaf.”
The smile he’d hoped for in return did not appear. “I’m sorry,” she said, her gaze riveted on the winding trail. “I just . . . I don’t want to be saved.”
That statement bothered him though he couldn’t say why. Not that it mattered. No way, no how was he going to let her tangle with a blackmailer. He wouldn’t allow a woman to put herself in harm’s way. He sure as shootin’ didn’t aim on twiddling his thumbs while she played amateur detective. The sooner he fixed this mess, the sooner he could return to solving real crime.
Tawdry.
What had a she gotten herself into? “Is this your first time in California?” she asked in a blatant attempt to change the subject.
It was. But he figured Pinkerton had probably toured the regional theaters, maybe even The Gilded Garrett, a San Franciscan opera house owned and run by Paris’s oldest brother, London Garrett. “First time this far north.”
“Paris mentioned you’ve been creatively blocked. Maybe this trip won’t be a total waste. Maybe you’ll find inspiration in the hills and valleys of Napa County.”
Seth had learned long ago he could often glean information by remaining silent. As such, he settled back and allowed Emily to ramble. She pointed out the vineyards of one of her distant neighbors, a hard-working entrepreneur, suitor number one, Claude Bellamont.
“He’s a good neighbor, and a good . . .” She cleared her throat. ‘Was a good friend of my father’s. He and his sons run Bellamont Winery and . . .”
Seth took it all in. The names. The history. The scenery.
He was damn near mesmerized by all the serene green. Gentle hills and lush lowlands. Densely wooded areas of oaks, pine firs, and varieties of trees he didn’t recognize. Vineyards. Orchards. According to his chatty companion, Napa County was rich with grapes, olives, apples, oranges, and walnuts.
Then there were the flowers. Abundant, colorful petals exploding amongst miles and miles of green. She identified those, too.
There was an almighty difference betwee
n Northern California and the desert wilds of Arizona Territory, where mostly everything, aside from the cactus and mesquite, was one shade or another of brown.
He didn’t mind the scenery. Change was good. He’d repeated that mantra on the journey from Phoenix to Yuma, from Yuma to San Francisco, and from that sprawling city to the quaint one-horse town of Heaven. He was just about sold. If not good, then change was at least interesting. These days he appreciated anything out of the ordinary.
The bridge of his nose throbbed from a slight, but annoying, pressure. Damned spectacles. Mostly they were for up-close work. It chafed that he needed them. A sign of aging, the spectacle peddler had said. Completely normal, he’d added, as if that was supposed to make Seth feel better. The traveling salesman had made him feel a half century older than his thirty-one.
Frowning, he gazed over the top of the oval-wired lenses and continued to study the land as he memorized the trek from town to Emily’s country home. After his fall and the Nancy boy references, she’d changed her mind about taking him in fast as a Deacon taking up collection in church. Add gullible and softhearted to her vast and varied characteristics.
Deception, though not his original intention, now seemed key to ensuring a successful mission. He wasn’t keen on masquerading as an effeminate scribe, but Paris was right. Her friend’s reputation wouldn’t suffer overly much under this guise. The ass over tea-kettle incident, though an ego bruiser, had strengthened his ruse. Now the citizens not only thought he was a dandy, but a klutz. Only one other person knew he wasn’t a total buffoon, and that was the person who tripped him. Cole Sawyer. Instead of saving himself and cold-cocking the bastard, Seth had milked the fall.
Kissing the floorboards had been a sure-fire way of diverting attention from Emily. When it came to cussin’, she didn’t swallow her tongue none, but describing a steamy embrace struck her speechless. He’d feigned unconsciousness longer than necessary, luring her into that kiss-of-life business. He couldn’t get a fix on her and he wanted to explore the extent of her inhibitions. Now he knew. The woman dressed on the wild side, but when it came to physical intimacy, she was wound up tighter than a toad’s ass.
